


Bespoke

by mugenmine



Series: NewSub!John Headspace [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Gags, Genderswap, Kink Meme, M/M, Power Dynamics, Sub!John, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-08 23:20:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugenmine/pseuds/mugenmine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thought of moving outside of their private in-between space and being forced to interact with others unnerved him the most. Being restrained, he was oddly calm about, he’d been getting used to that. Having others watch him, or possibly touch him, if Sherlock allowed it… John didn’t know if he was ready to handle that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duh_i_read (duh_i_write)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duh_i_write/gifts).



> This is the third story in the [NewSub!John Headspace](http://archiveofourown.org/series/16177) Series. It reads as a standalone, but events from the second story [The Doctor in the Boot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/386920/chapters/633990) are referenced. Tags are for the entire work.

“I’ve been thinking,” Sherlock said. 

John looked up from his dinner. It had been about fifteen minutes since the last time Sherlock had spoken. This wasn’t unusual behaviour, long lapses into silence were par for the course. Sherlock sat across from him, nursing a cup of green tea and watching him attempt to eat with chopsticks. 

The case that had brought them to Tokyo with the promise of stolen corporate secrets and an unsolved murder had been solved in about a day and a half. They had split up after that, John spending his time following his tour book from shrine to shrine and Sherlock wandering off in search of less mundane ways to occupy himself. Each evening, they regrouped at various noodle and curry shops around Tokyo to compare notes on their solitary adventures. This arrangement had suited both of them perfectly as they passed the days until they returned to England.

John fumbled with his chopsticks, shifting and adjusting the wood between his fingers until they held fast and didn’t shake when he moved his hand. Then he went in. He chased around a pile of shrimp and fish until it disappeared beneath the noodles. Then he just gave up aiming at all and hauled whatever he could to his mouth. He closed his eyes and inhaled the savoury steam. He had never eaten Champon before. It had been on his list of noodles to try and, at that moment, he really couldn’t come up with anything that would top this.

“You’ve been thinking about what?” John asked between mouthfuls.

“I have it figured out,” Sherlock continued and John tried to latch onto the random thread that Sherlock had cast between them.

“I’m not following you, Sherlock.”

“A method that we can use. To make sure that we-” Sherlock paused, and thought for a moment before he started up again, “so that I don’t let things get out of control like before. Like last time, or the time before that…”

John set his chopsticks down on the side of his bowl and turned his full attention onto Sherlock.

“We’re going to do this here?” John whispered. He scanned the room, suddenly feeling like everyone was listening and knew exactly what they were talking about, but no one paid them any mind. For that matter, neither was anyone speaking English. For a moment he had forgotten that they were on the other side of the world. He tried not to jump ahead and guess where this would end. He knew that he was going to have to wait it out.

Sherlock sighed. “I’ve been inconsiderate in my approach.” He searched John’s face as he spoke. “I’ve made assumptions that have ended up rather wrong. I never intended to force you into anything you didn’t want to do. And you’ve been… generous with me.”

John tapped the edge of his bowl, the ceramic hot beneath his fingertips. It had been over two weeks since Sherlock had locked him in a room, taken him apart, and then stitched him back together with the words, ‘I don’t want it to stop either.’ When it had ended, he had been too wrecked to move. Sherlock had brought him home, cleaned him up and cared for him, but then neither of them had spoken of it again.

Things had slipped back into a strange kind of normal. Roles had been re-assumed, power had been rebalanced and once again they became the doctor and the consulting detective. John had wanted to say something, but he had been too afraid to find the right words, and Sherlock had never said a thing.

There had been one change however. Sometimes, coming out of a dream in the dead of night, John would find Sherlock asleep next to him, like a stray cat that had chosen its home for the night. In those quiet moments, John would study the lines of Sherlock as he slept, watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest, listen to the slow rhythm of his breathing and marvel at the complete stillness that had found its way into Sherlock’s body. In the morning, though, Sherlock was never there and John began to wonder if these were just half-remembered dreams.

So this conversation, in the light of day, albeit in a rundown noodle shop in Tokyo, was significant. It was an acknowledgement. It was proof that this had not been just a dream and John had been starving for it, wondering if he had been forgotten.

It was his turn to say something. Sherlock looked at him expectantly over his tea, but John had no clue how to proceed. He took his time, rubbing his temples, trying to put his next sentence together thoughtfully.  _Why are you telling me this now? What the hell are we doing? Why didn’t you fucking say anything to me at all?_

“What did you have in mind?” John asked instead. 

“A system,” Sherlock answered. He nodded once, seeming quite certain. “Two chances. I’ll ask you once, if you will give yourself to me. That will be your first chance to refuse. If you say yes, then you’ll know that sometime that day or night, we’ll begin.”

_Of course. A system._ He had been foolish to think that a proper conversation would be had, that somehow he would unburden himself and finally ask Sherlock what it was that they were doing together. Because for him this was becoming less about his need to be dominated and more about his need to be dominated by Sherlock and the not so subtle distinction complicated the hell out of everything. But he still listened, still intrigued. The fact that Sherlock had devised this elaborate and baffling system meant that he had been thinking about what they were doing as well. 

“Once we start, you’ll have one more chance to back out. I’ll ask you if you’ll do this for me. That will be your second chance to refuse.”

“And if I refuse?” 

“Then we stop,” Sherlock said.

“And if I agree?” John said quietly, holding Sherlock’s stare.

“Then we take it until I determine it’s over. That part hasn’t changed.” 

John closed his eyes to break the contact between them. He tapped his finger sharply against the side of his bowl and the chopsticks clattered onto the table. One chance to prepare, one chance to commit and then… anything. Sherlock knew him too well.  _And I said dangerous and here you are._

“It’s still all a bit vague,” John said. “I  _know_ you Sherlock. I could say yes and then find myself shanghaied and locked in some cargo container bound for Yemen.”

“I’ll warn you the first time I ask you. I’ll tell you if I plan to incorporate heightened realism, so you can factor that into your decision on whether or not you want to continue.”

John blinked at Sherlock. “So that bloody Yemen scenario really isn’t outside of your scope is it?” He knew that he should say no to this. He was fully aware that it was reckless and that things like this didn’t really happen in real life, but that’s what drew him to it. In the end he would have two chances to back out, and after that, it would all be on him. 

“Would you like to practice it?” Sherlock said, “Make sure you have the protocol down?”

_The protocol? Seriously?_

“I really don’t think I’m going to cock up saying no to you.”

Sherlock sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. “The fastest way to learn a concept is to apply it. I don’t want you to forget how to do this correctly the next time it comes up.”

John held up his hands in defeat. “Alright. Okay. One time.” He scanned the shop again, his attention stopping on a young man pouring over a Business English textbook. “Not too loud.” 

Sherlock leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “Will you give yourself to me?” 

This was the part where John was supposed to say no. That would be that. Dry run over. Under the weight of Sherlock’s stare, John picked at his fingernail and the voices around him faded into white noise. 

“Alright, then. Yes.” He waited for a reaction, a raised eyebrow, a measured look of surprise, anything.

Sherlock clapped his hands together. “Good. Finish your dinner. I have an appointment scheduled for us in an hour.”

John blinked. 

“This is Tokyo, John. I want to get you something special. Something  _bespoke_.”

“You- knew?” John’s voice cracked. He brought it back down to a whisper. “You knew I’d say yes right now?”

Sherlock smiled and sipped his tea.

_Something bespoke._

John could get behind that. Months ago he’d seen a suit in a shop window on Savile Row that had stopped him in his tracks. It was a thing of fucking perfection. Charcoal grey jacket, single breasted with the classic two-button styling and slim lapels. John could see himself out and about in something like that. Not that he ever really went out and about, but if he did, it would be good to be prepared. A hand-finished, bespoke suit would cost at least three grand back home, and he could only imagine how much it would cost in Tokyo. If whatever scenario Sherlock had come up with would involve him looking smart, he would be fine with that.

“I mean, do we have enough time to get a suit made? We only have two days left.” John latched onto a piece of pork and smiled at his small victory. “I’ve got a few ideas if we do, though. I could probably find a picture of the suit I was thinking of-”

“You think you’re getting fitted for a suit tonight?” Sherlock said. He sounded amused and John felt the heat rising beneath his skin as his heart quickened. Sherlock locked stares with him once more. “Oh no John, I think you’ve let your imagination get a bit carried away there. I’m getting you fitted for a muzzle.”

  


* * *

 

Sherlock set the rules on the taxi ride to the hectic heart of Kabuki-cho. They were headed to the red-light district, in the centre of Shinjuku, and there John would be bound. John stared out of the window as Sherlock spoke, watching the city lights blur and fade and he wondered if other people lost themselves in dangerous games such as these. 

He would be measured and fitted for a bespoke set of restraints. Together they would decide what would be suitable for him and John would be allowed three vetoes, three chances to say no. Before it would all begin, he would be given one more chance to back out. Sherlock’s final question had yet to be asked. So John waited, and tried to decide if he was actually going to go through with this. 

As the minutes passed and Sherlock’s voice faded into silence, the only sound in the taxi was a melancholy song on the radio. It was sung most likely about love or loss, in a language that John couldn’t understand, but the tone he knew as clear as day. It sounded out of time, as they moved through this modern city, like it was meant to have been listened to long ago. As John tried to imagine what the words might have been, and who this song was meant for, Sherlock touched his knee. 

“Will you do this for me?” Sherlock asked him.

John frowned. Still not sure.

“If I agree to this, Sherlock,” John said quietly, “then you have to watch out for me tonight. I don’t want to feel lost in there.” He watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, waiting for a response. The thought of moving outside of their private in-between space and being forced to interact with others unnerved him the most. Being restrained, he was oddly calm about, he’d been getting used to that. Having others watch him, or possibly touch him, if Sherlock allowed it… John didn’t know if he was ready to handle that. 

“I promise,” Sherlock said. He kept his hand on John’s knee. 

“Ask me again when we get there.” 


	2. Chapter 2

The elevator doors opened and John moved back to let more people squeeze into the tiny space. Three young men with cheap suits and hair that defied gravity got in on the third floor. Two of them texted like lightening while the third threw a glance at Sherlock before turning his attention to his reflection in the metal doors. The elevator had stopped on every floor, and at this rate it would take ten minutes to reach their destination at the top. But John really wasn’t in a hurry.

When they had arrived in Kabuki-cho, under a night sky made up of a thousand illuminated signs, Sherlock had asked John once more.  _Will you do this for me?_ John had buried his hands deep into his jacket pockets and looked away, taking in the tide of the crowds instead. Businessmen out to get lost and drunk, groups of young women dressed up for a night out, packs of orange-haired hosts chatting up ladies and luring them into their clubs. John stared at the storefronts with the frosted glass windows and pictures of girls with blacked-out eyes. He imagined that they would do all sorts of things to him if he stopped in for awhile. 

There on the street, he had agreed to Sherlock’s proposition. No matter how mad this was, and no matter how nervous he felt, he couldn’t deny that he longed for the feel of his heart racing just before things spun out of control. He resigned himself to the fact that this would be hard, and he would almost certainly be out of his depth. But there was a chance that this might be exciting, and if Sherlock was kind to him, maybe it would be pleasurable as well. 

“How do you know this place?” John asked. The way they had navigated the vast maze of side streets made him wonder if Sherlock had taken this journey before. In the time that they had known each other, John knew he had only scratched the surface of Sherlock’s past. Maybe all of this played a larger role than he had imagined.

“I know the patron of this art studio.”

“Art studio? I thought you were taking me to a bondage shop.”

“Manji’s still an artist, John.”

The doors to the fifth floor opened and wave of pop music flooded into the space. John waited for the young men to leave and the din to recede before he started again.

“Ares Adler is Manji’s patron,” Sherlock said.

“Aries? Like the zodiac sign?” John asked.

“No. The God of War.” 

“Of course… And how exactly do you know him?” 

Sherlock shrugged off the question. “Long story, not particularly relevant.” 

“I’d like to know what I’m getting myself into.”

“Would you? I thought that was half of the thrill with you,” Sherlock said. He adjusted the back of John’s jacket collar. “ Not knowing what you’re getting yourself into.” 

John allowed Sherlock’s attention; it was the first sign of things to come. He noticed that as they moved closer to the start and the power dynamic began to shift, Sherlock began to focus only on him. With that focus came an intimacy that was never a part of their daily life, so John waited patiently for Sherlock to straighten his jacket, and savoured the touch.

“And what’s the other half, then?” John asked.

Sherlock leaned closer. “Enduring it.”

John tried not to smile.

The elevator doors opened onto a narrow hallway. John stepped out onto a hardwood floor polished so brightly that he could almost make out his image on the ground before him. Dark metal doors dotted the long hall, giving no sign as to what sort of worlds existed behind them. The word MANJI was painted in bold red letters down the door at the far end. The end of the road. 

“So you don’t want to tell me,” John said.

Sherlock sighed and slowed his pace. “Ares Adler. British ex-pat. Got in my brother’s sights after it came to light that he had an extensive image collection of numerous influential people in compromising situations.”

“So he’s a-?”

“Professional disciplinarian. Specialises in obedience training.” 

“I see.”

“Mycroft asked me to contact him, get him to turn over the images. Or at least the most sensitive ones. Ares claimed that as long as he was left alone the Empire need not worry. End of story.”

“So, I’m assuming you got the pictures?”

Sherlock picked up his pace. “Not exactly.”

“Wait, so you didn’t get the images?” John paused to ponder that. “Really?”

“It was a stalemate.” 

“And you kept in contact with him, why?”

Sherlock continued down the hall.

John frowned and wondered what type of man could prove to be a challenge for Sherlock Holmes. _Ares Adler. __Professional disciplinarian._ Who the hell named himself after a Greek god? John imagined Ares as a pale, steely-eyed older man with leather gloves and some sort of military uniform. Unyielding. Calculating. Probably of the mindset that a submissive should be seen and not heard. It was a stereotype, and a ridiculous one, but the image came nonetheless.

“So, is he going to be here tonight?” John asked, suddenly realising that he might actually have to meet this man.

“I would be surprised if he wasn’t. I’m sure Manji told him we had an appointment.” Sherlock paused and scanned John quickly. He frowned and made adjustments, straightening John’s hair with his fingers and unbuttoning the top button of John’s collar. John began to wonder if Sherlock doubted his ability to dress himself properly. 

“You’ll do fine, John.” 

Sherlock knocked on the door and they were greeted with a burst of laughter from the other side. John wondered what the joke was all about.

A young Japanese man opened the door, still laughing from whatever hilarity had just occurred. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and smiled broadly. 

“Kazuo.” Sherlock extended his hand and the young man shook it firmly.

John put Kazuo in his early twenties if that. He stood a head taller than John, slender and long-limbed, with dishevelled hair that had either been slept on or styled that way. His suit looked like it had cost a small fortune. 

“Sherlock, it’s good to see you again. Welcome back to Tokyo.” He stood aside to let them pass. “And you must be Dr. Watson,” Kazuo said.

The West London accent took John by surprise. He had assumed that if you were Japanese in Japan then you must’ve grown up here, but Kazuo proved him wrong. As he shook Kazuo’s hand John couldn’t help but notice the quick glance that ran down the length of his body and back up again. When Kazuo’s gaze met his own, John forced a smile.

“Please, call me John.”

When he stepped over the threshold, John’s attention was pulled in ten different directions by the clutter and chaos before him. The studio took up half of the tenth floor and was filled with the thick smell of cigarette smoke, paint, and leather. Wooden shelves covered the long wall, each taken up with clusters of similar things, metal parts, art supplies, bondage tape, bolts of vinyl, and gauge upon gauge of chain. In one corner, a group of faceless mannequins stared blindly out into the space, naked save the black tattoos inked on their fibreglass skin. Floor to ceiling windows covered the opposite wall and John didn’t know where to look.

The only open space was a sitting area at the heart of the studio. Red shag carpet filled the space between two leather sofas and would serve as a stage for the person who stood in the centre. It was a place to be watched from both sides. Spacey lounge music drifted down from speakers mounted high on the walls and John added all of this to his list of ‘new and surreal experiences’. He had a feeling that this list would grow by the end of the night.

“Dr. Watson,” Ares Adler stepped forward and extended his hand. He looked John in the eyes as he spoke. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

“Ares,” Sherlock muttered as he brushed past.

“Sherlock,” Ares said, his attention still focused on John.

John’s image of the riding crop-wielding military man was quickly overwritten. Ares Adler was younger and taller and more fit than John had imagined. He was somewhere in his mid thirties perhaps, African descent, close cropped hair and goatee. John admired Ares’ style; crisp white dress shirt, black tie and waistcoat, black tailored trousers, nothing out of place. Ares’ handshake gave John the impression that if he wanted, Ares could probably break his hand. 

Ares wore a Blancpain 1735 Grand Complication watch, the 18 karat gold gears accenting the matte black metal face. The only reason John knew this was because he’d read about the watch in a Sunday magazine. Only fifty were produced each year and at the time John had wondered who the hell would waste £200,000 on a bloody watch. Now he knew. John tried not to stare at it. 

“Uh, please…” John paused, watching Sherlock stalk to the other side of the studio. “John’s fine.” 

Ares seemed nonplussed by Sherlock’s quick dismissal and retreat. “Don’t worry. He orbits for a while before he lands. Things calm down after about ten or fifteen minutes when one of us finally relents and decides to start a conversation. Alright, John it is.” 

Ares smiled warmly, his brown eyes brightened and John felt a bit unsettled at how personable Ares seemed and how oddly Sherlock had reacted.

“Can I get you a drink?” Ares asked. “Kazuo, take his coat for him.”

John stepped back as a flurry of activity circled around him. Kazuo took his jacket as Ares stalked off towards a refrigerator. Sherlock hovered by the side of a quiet young man who was hunched over a drafting table and sketching in a battered book. John figured that had to be Manji. 

At first glance, with his buzz cut and quiet demeanour, Manji resembled the monks John had seen tending the temples in Kamakura. But from the neck down Manji was covered in pin-up girl tattoos and instead of orange robes he wore a tattered London Calling t-shirt and skinny jeans. He looked even younger than Kazuo. Within moments Sherlock had lit up from a crumpled pack of offered cigarettes, and was peering over Manji’s shoulder, pointing out details on the page. 

Ares returned with a bottle of brown liquor and three ceramic glasses as Kazuo cleared off a space on one of the cluttered worktables. 

“Do you drink shōchu John?”

“No, I’ve never had it. But, that’s alright. I’m good thanks.” 

“I hear this is your first time to Japan,” Ares stated, and John nodded. “It’s the first time that always leaves a mark. Either you hate it or you end up moving here.” 

“It’s different than I expected. But I’ve enjoyed it so far. When did you come over?” 

Ares smiled, thinking back. “Ah, first time was in June 2002.” 

“During the Cup? Seriously?” John perked up a bit then, surprised that Ares was fan enough to venture to Japan for the World Cup. He’d been forced to watch the Brazil vs. England Quarter-finals at an overcrowded pub at 7:00AM. He had been drunk by 7:30. “Did you-”

Ares frowned. “I watched it all from the midfield sideline; saw that bloody free kick up close. We were all gutted. I mean it was Brazil, but my God, it was close.”

John laughed. “Close? Not with fucking Ronaldinho. I vaguely remember a fight breaking out at the table next to me. Or it might have been at my table.” 

Ares laughed then and John leaned back against the table as the conversation began to flow between them. 

Kazuo returned once more with a pot of black tea and John relented to the hospitality, happy to have a proper cuppa after getting his hot tea from vending machines all week.

After spending the week stumbling through awkward half-English exchanges and Sherlock’s aloofness, finally having an actual conversation made John realise how much he had missed it.

Ares looked completely relaxed and at ease, and oddly not out of place in the centre of the chaos. It took John a while to get used to the way that Ares paid such close attention to him as they spoke. Ares’ stare was relentless, and no matter how hard he tried, John was always the one to look away.

They bounced easily from football to hometowns. Ares had been born in Hackney of all places, his parents had come over from Ghana, and he was quite proud of both his roots and the fact that he was a self-made man. John mentioned that he didn’t get the chance to travel much and that started them in on places they would like to visit or in Ares’ case, visit again. Ares poured John another cup of tea the moment his first one was drained. 

When John asked Ares how long he had been in this profession, Ares stunned him with seventeen years. When Ares asked John what he thought about the fact that he was going to be fitted for restraints tonight, John blushed.

“At least you’re honest about it,” Ares said.

Manji tucked his sketchbook under his arm and together he and Sherlock rejoined the group. Up close, John admired the bound and corseted Betty Page that covered the length of Manji’s forearm. The silver hoops in Manji’s ears matched the silver collar that looked to be welded around his neck. John wondered if that meant he belonged to someone.

Manji nodded at John in greeting and studied him for a while, then pulled out a pen from his back pocket, opened his book and began to sketch. He kept his head down as he wandered towards the sitting area. He raised his hand absently and gestured for John to follow.

“Please, come with me, Manji wants to begin,” Kazuo said.

John looked down as Kazuo took him by the wrist.

“Kazu,” Ares said, his eyes serious above his cool smile.

Kazuo pulled his hand away. “Please John, this way.”

“We’ll be there in a moment,” Ares said. His hand came to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock turned towards him.

Manji shuffled across the carpet, his bare feet swallowed up in the red. He stepped up onto the tattered sofa and settled down against the armrest. He drew his knees to his chest and looked up from his sketchbook at John.

John stood on the very edge, not sure if the centre was for him.

“Sokko ni tatte kudasai,” Manji said.

“I- I’m sorry, I don’t understand Japanese.” 

Kazuo sat down beside Manji.

“It’s alright. He wants you to stand on the rug. You should face us.”

“Should I take off my shoes?” 

Kazuo nodded.

“So they’ve known each other for a while?” John asked. He removed his shoes and socks and left them by the sofa.

He glanced over at Sherlock and Ares who were lost in conversation. Ares had his hand against the small of Sherlock’s back, their attention focused on some detail on the leather strap of a ball gag. John stopped. He’d never seen Sherlock allow anyone that kind of intimacy. The gesture seemed so natural to Ares, like he was used to being so close to Sherlock, or perhaps Sherlock was familiar with his touch. John wondered if he should look away. When they were finished, Ares passed the gag to Sherlock and Sherlock slipped it into his jacket pocket. Ares looked up and smiled as he met John’s gaze. 

Kazuo nodded. “Yes, since I’ve been with Ares, about two years now. Doesn’t really seem that long.”

John pulled his attention back to Kazuo. “So you’re  _with_ Ares, then?” 

“He’s teaching me. Ares is more of a- my mentor.” Kazuo contemplated the question. “I want to be more like him.”

“So you’re not his, so he doesn’t…” John wondered if there would be such a thing as a ‘too personal a question’ tonight, but he doubted that this was it.

“Does he dominate me? Of course, he’s Ares.” He fished a cigarette from Manji’s battered pack. The word HOPE was printed on the blue wrapper and John found the whole thing ironic.

“And you? Sherlock, he’s your first?”

“My first? I mean it’s not exactly like that.” John trailed off, trying to wrap his head around what he was trying to say. Top? Dom? There had to be a better word than that. He hated having to put a label on it. 

“Yes,” John finally answered. “Yes, he’s my first.”

“You’re lucky,” Kazuo said.

John wasn’t sure if he was supposed to nod.

“Anata no fuku wo sakujo shite kudasai.”

John looked to Kazuo once more for help.

“He wants you to take off your clothes.” Kazuo gave John the once-over again. “He needs to see your body.”

“All of it?” John glanced over at Sherlock once more, but Ares still monopolised Sherlock’s attention. They stood shoulder to shoulder, and Sherlock frowned as he spoke, and John couldn’t hear what they were saying over the music.

Manji and Kazuo went back and forth for a few moments until Manji sighed and finally frowned. He looked at John and gave him a thumbs-up.

“Yes, all of it,” Kazuo said.

John was sure that he had just missed something.

He stepped into the centre of the space and stared out at his audience of two. He set his jaw in a hard line, his hand hovering at his belt buckle. Kazuo smiled at him and nodded as if to say, ‘Go on now, it’s really not that bad.’ Manji squinted at him over the top of his sketchbook, tapping his pen against the spine quickly as if to prompt him to pick up the pace. Sherlock and Ares rejoined them in the middle of this awkward standstill. 

“It’s alright, John,” Ares said. “Take all the time you need.” He settled beside Kazuo and claimed the cigarette between Kazuo’s lips as his own.

John looked at Sherlock for a cue. He wanted to say no to this but the rules had been clear and he had agreed to them, so he unbuckled his belt. 

“Wait,” Sherlock said. “It’s neglectful of me, I should be helping you with this.”

John let his arms fall to his sides as Sherlock stepped into the centre with him. Sherlock made slow work of the buttons on John’s shirt and John found that if kept his focus on Sherlock, he could almost forget that they were on display. 

Sherlock seemed lost in the act of undressing him. His progress was deliberate, as if each button to be undone had meaning. Sherlock tugged on the hem of John’s vest and John caught the cue and raised his arms above his head. The vest joined the growing pile of clothes on the carpet.

Sherlock guided John’s hands forward until he touched the buckle of his belt. The weight of Sherlock’s hands on his wrists remained as he tugged the belt free and unhooked the buttons of his jeans. Sherlock did the rest. John closed his eyes as Sherlock leaned in close to him.

“Will you do this for me?” Sherlock hooked his fingers onto the waistband of John’s boxers.

John turned his face towards Sherlock and it was as if they had slipped back into their in-between space and were utterly alone. A choice had been given to him again, when John assumed that it wouldn’t be. So in return he gave it back.

“Do you want me to?” John asked so that only Sherlock could hear.

“It’s alright,” Sherlock said, he drew his hand away from John’s hip. “It’s enough.”

“But do you want me to?” John asked again.

Sherlock squinted past John, as if he was turning over a problem in his head. John counted the seconds until Sherlock returned to him.

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

John removed his boxers and added them to the pile.

The moment between them broke as Manji pulled a measuring tape from between the sofa cushions and made to stand. Sherlock shook his head.

“Only I touch him.” Sherlock looked at Kazuo. “Tell him that.”

Kazuo whispered the words to Manji. Sherlock claimed the measuring tape and in doing so claimed John. 


	3. Chapter 3

 

John found it easier not to look at anyone at all. He stared past Manji, counting the shelves along the walls, and cataloguing the things that he had learnt in his time in Tokyo. He knew now that he didn’t like soba noodles or anything involving sea urchin, and that rice omelets were becoming his new favourite thing to eat in the afternoon. He had also learnt that each station on the Yamanote train line had its own theme song and that every time he stumbled across a temple in the middle of the city, it was wondrous. Tonight he realised that he really didn’t care for lounge music.

Sherlock had told him to keep his hands at his sides, and so he did. It was simpler, focusing on what he must do, instead of the scrutiny of those around him. John stood up straight, feet apart, chin up, and stilled his hand when he started to tap his fingers against his thigh. He moved his hands behind his back then and stood at attention. He wished it was warmer in the studio.

He couldn’t help but notice the subtle changes in everyone’s behaviour. He was hyper-aware of how everyone looked at him now. Sherlock watched him with a greater intensity, studying him all at once. Kazuo stole glances when he thought John wasn’t looking. Manji and Ares didn’t seem to register that he was naked at all. John assumed that Ares was probably used to this dynamic and he was thankful that Ares looked him in the eye and distracted him with conversation. 

“Have you thought about what it is you need?” Ares asked. Kazuo stood at Ares’ side, taking down the numbers into a leather bound notebook as Sherlock meticulously measured and catalogued John’s body.

John opened his arms wide and Sherlock ran the measuring tape from his shoulder to the tip of his middle finger. 

“Thirty-one point five inches,” Sherlock said. “Ares is speaking to you, John.”

John frowned. He looked at Ares, though with Sherlock standing so close, his attention was divided. 

Sherlock’s hands smoothed across John’s skin as he worked and the gentle touches began to distract John, terribly. Sherlock lined the measuring tape straight across John’s back and shoulder blades, and then wrapped it around John’s chest. 

John shuddered as Sherlock’s fingers brushed against his nipples, forgetting for a moment that they were being watched. He had never thought about the numbers that made up his body. That the circumference of his neck was fifteen inches or that it was seven and a half inches from the heel of his palm to the tip of his middle finger. His wrist was only six and a half inches round and that number seemed too small to be right. He glanced down at the red line of the tape across his chest. 

“ Thirty-five inches.”

“What I- need?” John pulled himself back to the question. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“I’ll ask you an easier question, then,” Ares said. “How do you prefer to be restrained? Certainly, some ways are more pleasurable than others for you.”

“I don’t really have a preference. I haven’t given it much-” He looked to Sherlock for assistance, but Sherlock just stared back at him, waiting for the answer as well.

“He prefers wrist restraints,” Sherlock picked up John’s faltering response and Kazuo whispered the translation to Manji. “He doesn’t mind being tied up, though rope tends to leave ligature marks because he struggles so hard. He has an incredible amount of fight in him. Leather cuffs are probably best. He needs something that will hold him securely while he thrashes and tries to get away from me.”

“Ki ga tsuyoi?”

“He’s got a strong will?” Kazuo asked for Manji.

Sherlock nodded. “Extremely. He’s rather stubborn.”

Manji grinned once Kazuo translated Sherlock’s assessment. 

John closed his mouth, growing irritated and embarrassed that everyone was talking about him now as if he wasn’t there. He lowered his arms and covered himself as he became the topic of discussion.

“Have you tried a chest harness with him yet?” Ares asked. “Something that keeps his arms bound at his sides, like a locking belt. He’d probably find it frustrating. It’s a good position for someone who likes to struggle a lot.” Ares glanced down at John’s hands. “Or someone who has poor impulse control.” 

“That’s a thought,” Sherlock said, smacking John’s arm. “Did I say you could be modest?”

John clenched his jaw, face flushed from the scolding, and he extended his arms once again. He watched the numbers come together as Sherlock wrapped the measuring tape around his bicep. 

“Twelve inches,” Sherlock said. “He still hasn’t mastered the basic concepts like silence or self-control. I always use a gag on him and I prefer to keep his upper arms bound tight. I like that it forces a slight arch in his back and keeps him off balance. You can lower your arms now, John.” 

Sherlock traced his finger down John’s spine as he laid the measuring tape from the base of John’s neck to just below the small of his back. “Twenty-two.”

“Right, does everyone realise that I’m actually  _still_ in the room?” John asked.

“I’m sorry, John,” Ares said. “Sherlock answered the question for you, so I assumed that he didn’t want you to speak anymore.”

John shook his head. “It’s not  _like_ that. We haven’t set rules like that-” 

“You don’t have to define yourself. You just seemed new to all of this. I only asked you what you needed, because I wanted to see if you actually knew.” Ares turned to Sherlock. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing with him?”

Sherlock’s thin smile served as his response. He stood beside John and pressed his hand against the small of John’s back, claiming him once more. 

“Ares is under the impression that I’m too  _inexperienced_ to discipline you properly.”

“I’m not looking to be disciplined,” John said. _And why the hell are you talking about me with him?_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What is it that you’re always saying, Ares? Discipline is-”

Kazuo raised his hand. Ares nodded. 

“Discipline is the key to making a man,” Kazuo said. “It shapes who you are and who you could be.”

Ares smiled. “It’s true Sherlock. Perhaps you should work on that some more. Unlock your true potential.”

Sherlock tapped his fingers against John’s back. “Ares also thinks he can tell exactly what a submissive wants.”

John scratched the back of his head. “You know, it’s really not about discipline with me,” he said to Kazuo, who seemed to be the only one listening to him. Kazuo gave him a sympathetic smile.

“Let me see if I’ve got you right, John. You can be the judge.” Ares’ attention stayed fixed on Sherlock as he spoke. “You’re not one to get on your knees willingly, you want to be restrained by force, you get off on fighting back, you need more praise than you’d like to admit, you’re not looking for a master, but you want someone who can dominate you. You basically need a strong but gentle hand.”

“Um, more or less, yes.” John said quietly.

Ares directed his scrutiny back onto John. “I’m guessing what you  _haven’t_ told Sherlock is that you need much more than what he’s capable of giving you.” 

The truth of the words stunned John silent.

“We should get on with this,” Sherlock said. He glared openly at Ares. Ares smiled and returned the stare. And John wished they would both just stop this fucking game they were playing with each other. 

“What’s next for him?” Sherlock asked.

“He needs to be sized for a bit,” Ares said.

John frowned, still distracted by Ares’ blunt assessment. Kazuo approached him with a lacquered box in his hands. Six metal bits lined the small case and the sight of them pulled John out of his headspace. The smallest seemed about a half an inch in diameter and the largest looked to be over two inches. John knew he couldn’t get his teeth around something that big.

Sherlock started with the largest of the bits, almost eager to get it in his hand. John pulled back. Sherlock had only forced him to wear a bit once before and it had hurt. The one Sherlock wielded now was even larger.

“No, I veto that one. There’s no bloody way.” He looked up at Sherlock. Ares moved behind him and Kazuo stepped in closer to watch. John wanted to tell everyone to move the hell back.

“Try this one instead,” Sherlock said. 

Sherlock chose the second smallest in the case and John leaned forward and opened obediently for it. He could close his teeth around this one and manage it. The bit did nothing to silence him. He could get loud against it if he wanted to and even be able to form words. He bit down on the hard steel, the taste bitter and sharp in his mouth, the metal cold against his tongue. The silicone bit he had worn in the past seemed soft in comparison. He liked this one, though. The constant weight in his mouth and the presence between his teeth kept him rooted and in the moment. John exhaled slowly around the metal and closed his eyes. 

“Yes, I think this size is perfect for him,” Sherlock took John by the chin and Kazuo took down the gauge. “Zero point eight inches. Come back to us, John.” 

John opened his eyes and looked up, realising once more that all eyes were on him.

  


* * *

 

As Sherlock and Kazuo went through the shelves in search of things to bind John with, Ares stood beside him in the centre. John covered himself with his hands again.

“The position Sherlock wants you in. Does it hurt, with your injury?” Ares asked, he stared at the scar that marked the left side of John’s chest where the bullet had pierced his pectoral muscle, cracked through his rib and lodged itself deep in the maze of nerves and muscles in his rotator cuff. “You should say something if it’s too much. There’s a difference between bearing pain and exacerbating an injury. Sherlock should know that.”

Ares’ hand hovered over the ruined skin. “May I?” He asked. 

“Don’t.” John knew the word would stay Ares’ hand. Over the years, his wound had been poked and traced by healing hands and curious fingers. He wasn’t sensitive or unnerved by the touch, but Sherlock had been clear.  _Only I touch him. _ John had a feeling that Ares was testing him right now. “Only Sherlock can-”

He stopped, too embarrassed to finish the sentence. 

Ares lowered his hand and laughed. “Yes. He did say that. He also told you to keep your hands at your sides.”

John blushed and moved his hands back to where they were supposed to be.

“It does hurt, sometimes like hell, but I can bear it.” John tried not to acknowledge the power play he’d just lost and distracted himself with the details. “It could’ve been much worse. This whole area is a fucking minefield. Lower it could’ve punctured my lung, higher it could've shattered my clavicle. If he had been closer or the calibre larger, it could’ve gone though the scapula and I’d barely be able to raise my arm. There was a lot of muscle damage, axillary nerve damage. It just feels...”

It had been a while since he had truly stopped and looked at his scar. It wasn’t very impressive. All the damage had been done internally. He pressed against the ruined skin, digging his fingers into the numb flesh. There was pressure but no sensation of his fingers against the scar, and after awhile it just felt wrong. He shuddered.

“My range of motion is good enough.” He stretched his arms wide. “My right extends back further than the left. I had to have physio for it. I mean it’ll always be a bit stiff, but like with anything, you just get used to it.” John didn’t mention the tremor in his hand or the limp he had brought back from the war. They had stopped when he’d crossed paths with Sherlock, when he had truly started to live again. 

“I don’t usually have my arms tied behind my back.” John stopped with an awkward laugh, suddenly aware that he’d been rambling on for quite some time. 

He still couldn’t read Ares. Ares looked at him with concern and John didn’t understand why.

“Just because he prefers to see you bound one way, doesn’t mean you have to suffer through it,” Ares said. “He should be mindful of your limits.” 

“He is,” John said with more force than he intended. He couldn’t deny what Ares said, but he wasn’t about to undermine Sherlock. He didn’t know what his limits were yet. 

“Are you ready?” Sherlock returned with a folded pile of leather and straps and Kazuo brought back things that would silence him and take his sight. John did his best to keep his apprehension to himself and prepare for what was about to be done as everyone turned their eyes back onto him.

“Bring your arms behind your back, palms facing each other,” Sherlock said. 

John reluctantly did as he was told, still stuck on the things that Ares had said to him. He let Sherlock ease his shoulders back and down and the new posture forced him to lift his chin and level his gaze straight at Ares.

“Heishi no yō ni tatte iru.”

“He says you stand like a soldier,” Kazuo said.

“Tell him I am one.” 

Kazuo translated and Manji nodded at John over the top of his sketchbook.

“I want to see how you respond to this,” Sherlock said. “If I get one made for you, it will be designed to your exact measurements. I don’t imagine that you will enjoy this, but I could be wrong.”

Sherlock held up the binder. When it came to the gear that John would endure, Sherlock made certain that John knew every detail and what he could expect. From the way Sherlock lit up as he explained what would go where and how, John doubted that the lectures were solely for his benefit.

The arm binder was simple in design. It looked like a long leather glove, narrow where his hands would be trapped together, and widening to the top. Two straps would go over his shoulders and keep him from shrugging out of it. John had no doubt that he would hate it. He contemplated using his second veto.

“Both of my arms go in that?” John asked, trying to delay the inevitable.

Sherlock shot him an exasperated look. “It wouldn’t be very effective if we only put one in, now would it? Do you need anything else explained to you?”

“No, I think I’ve got it.” John stood up straighter, already feeling the pull in his shoulder.

The binder slid easily over his hands, and past his forearms. John gripped his hands tighter and braced himself as Sherlock tugged the leather past his elbows. The top edge of the binder stopped just above his biceps.

John exhaled and tried to relax. Even without the straps tightened he already hated it. He had hoped that Sherlock would eventually choose another position for him, but Sherlock was hooked on this one and now he was being fitted for gear that would keep him trapped in this shape.

He struggled to stay silent as Sherlock pulled his arms closer together and tightened the straps, locking him in. John arched his back, compensating for the pull, waiting to see how far Sherlock would take this. He bit down and soldiered through it, there was no bloody way he was going give Ares the satisfaction of watching him back down.

“Careful.” John groaned.

Ares sighed and shook his head. “Not like that.” 

John tensed as Ares moved Sherlock aside, and then Ares’ strong hands were at his back, loosening and adjusting the straps until the pain began to ease. John held his tongue, feeling like an idiot for trying to be a part of this game of who was on top, when he didn’t even have all of the pieces. He still wanted to claw his way out of the binder but he could bear it now. 

“How does it feel?” Ares asked.

“Fucking awful.” 

Ares’ hand settled between John’s shoulder blades. “Do you want to stop?” 

John wished it had been Sherlock who asked the question, because he  _was_ ready to stop, but he couldn’t. He had signed his soul away on the streets of Kabuki-cho, and now he was in it to the end. Maybe it was the ache in his shoulder, or that he was tired, or that he was growing sick of the constant pulling between everyone in the room that made him want out. He looked to Sherlock, but Sherlock was staring at Ares and John began to suspect that the promise to look out for him tonight had been forgotten. Sherlock moved behind him once more, and as Ares’ hand pulled away, Sherlock’s took its place.

John shook his head. “No, I’m fine.” 

Sherlock reached for the blindfold and John’s heart began to race. There was no way he was going to let Sherlock take his sight. Not in the middle of all of this. He had to be able to see what was coming next.

“Close your eyes,” Sherlock ordered.

John pulled away. “No, Kazuo you can just keep that thing in your hand.”

“You’re using your second veto?” Sherlock asked. “That only leaves you with one, you know.”

John frowned. “I know how to count.” 

He stared at the gag in Kazuo’s hand, knowing it would be next. It would be effective, like everything else he had been forced to endure, a thick leather ball set on the inside of a wide leather strap. It would fill his mouth and keep his lips sealed. He could handle it, he’d handled crueler things, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to now. Once they gagged him, the dynamic would shift, and he would be set soundly at the bottom of it all. Kazuo passed the gag to Sherlock and John clenched his jaw. It was becoming habit.

Sherlock stroked the back of John’s head. It was the cue for him to open his mouth, but he wasn’t going to. 

“This isn’t exactly a muzzle, but the effect is virtually the same. When Manji designs one for you, I’ll make sure he adds all sorts of straps to hold it in place and keep you occupied,” Sherlock said. He held the leather up before John’s face. “Take it, don’t be difficult.”

John moved back. “Don’t be  _difficult_? I’m vetoing it just for that.”

Behind him, Ares laughed. Kazuo translated for Manji.

Sherlock smiled, though his eyes began to turn cold. “That’s your third veto.” 

“I’m well aware of that.”

Sherlock stopped and studied John for a while, and then he opened his hand and let the gag fall to the carpet. John knew then that he was fucked.

Ares took Kazuo by the wrist and led him back to the couch. Together they sat down and began to watch. “Looks like the fighter is coming out now, Sherlock. Mind you, this isn’t about discipline with him. Think carefully about what you’re going to do next.”

Sherlock glared at Ares. “I have no need for a lesson, Ares.” 

John stared at Ares and kept quiet. If he opened his mouth right now, he was going to say something he would regret. Somehow Ares had manoeuvred them all around the board and now he and Sherlock were back on display. John steeled himself. It was Sherlock’s move. John had let his temper guide his hand and now Sherlock would take him down. He had to, everyone was watching. 

Sherlock reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a ball gag and John’s heart sank. He’d been too distracted with other things to remember that Sherlock had it with him the whole time. Sherlock held it up in front of John’s face. It was an awful hollow thing, large and metal and riddled with holes. He would have to open wide for it and the moment it was locked in, he would start to drool. Sherlock knew this would humiliate him more than anything. 

“Perhaps we should revisit how many vetoes you have left,” Sherlock said.

John stared straight ahead, his focus fixed on the wall, waiting for it. He exhaled and steadied himself. “None,” he said quietly. He tried to show no emotion, but he knew the colour in his face gave away his embarrassment. He closed his eyes and parted his lips, bracing for the metal to scrape against his teeth and force his mouth open wide.

He flinched as Sherlock’s hand pressed against his chest and it was then that he realised his heart was still racing. Sherlock leaned in close, and his mouth brushed against John’s ear. 

“You really should work on your maths skills, John,” Sherlock whispered. “By my count you still have one left.”

John opened his eyes wide as Sherlock returned the ball gag to his pocket. 

“Breathe, John,” Sherlock said and John exhaled, finally able to let go of the breath he had trapped in his chest. He wondered what Ares was thinking, watching him and Sherlock standing so close, whispering their secrets to each other. Sherlock retrieved the leather gag from the floor and offered it to him once more. 

“I take it you’ll be choosing this one now? I trust you won’t be difficult this time,” Sherlock said. 

John scowled at the jab, bristling that he’d been put soundly in his place, but still thankful that he’d been given his choice back. Even though somehow he still ended up exactly where Sherlock wanted him. John frowned, but opened for the gag willingly this time. 

He groaned as Sherlock buckled it in place. The strap pressed tight against his lips, his tongue trapped beneath the leather ball, his mouth filled with the taste of it. The sensation of something foreign being pushed into his mouth never ceased to be overwhelming. It was as if he was being forced underwater, and even the sounds he made became muted inside his head. 

Sherlock took John by the chin and watched him as he adjusted to it, and when John had quieted, Sherlock moved behind him and pulled him into his arms.

“Down now.”

John blinked. He looked back, unsure of the command until he felt Sherlock’s knee pressed against the back of his own. 

The weight of Sherlock’s hands stayed steady on John’s shoulders. It would be easy for Sherlock to force him onto his knees; he was already unsteady and sore. But he didn’t want to kneel. Not as some further test of obedience, because he’d already been more than fucking obedient tonight. He’d been stripped, measured, catalogued, toyed with, bound and now gagged. Maybe it was ridiculous to be drawing a line now, but his aggravation was topped out for the night. If he was going to go down, Sherlock was going to have to force him. He had no plans to kneel on his own.

John shook his head and narrowed his eyes, fully aware that he was being _difficult_ again. He glared at everyone before him and the energy in the space became electric. Manji looked up from his sketchbook and smiled at John then, a subtle respect in his eyes.

Sherlock planted his foot against the back of John’s knee and took him down. 

“When you told me you were going to start this, I admit I was surprised,” Ares said. He stood and moved before Sherlock, towering over John. Ares’ gaze drifted down and took John in as he spoke. “But now that you’ve brought him by to see me, I think I understand a few things.”

John struggled, trapped on his knees, Sherlock gripping him by the hair. He looked up as Ares placed a cigarette between Sherlock lips, and Sherlock hovered close as Ares lit it. Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s hair as he smoked. John looked down, held beneath them in this strangely intimate moment, willing himself still. 

“It’s quite obvious why John’s doing this, but I’m not sure I understand why you are,” Ares said.

“I didn’t bring him by here to see you.” 

“You didn’t answer my question, Sherlock.” 

John glared up at Ares, needing him to stop now, so afraid that Sherlock would say something that would tear all of this apart. 

“Can you even articulate it?” Ares pushed again and Sherlock’s fingers tensed against John’s scalp. “Why you’re doing this?”

“Ares, don’t,” Sherlock growled.

John struggled to look back at Sherlock. He didn’t know what the hell was going on between them. He wasn’t even sure if he was at the centre of it anymore.

“Kazuo, do you have some place for John to wait?” Sherlock asked.

John shook his head.  _Don’t you fucking dare, Sherlock._

Kazuo spoke to Manji and Manji pointed to a door at the far end of the studio. John struggled, cursing Sherlock as he was hauled to his feet and dragged across the space. The last thing he wanted was to be marched to his room like some bloody child.

He’d half expected to be shoved into a cupboard full of mannequin parts, but instead he was pushed into Manji’s bedroom. His temporary prison was surprisingly sparse and clean. A futon lay folded in halves in the corner and the tatami mats still smelled faintly of grass. A low shelf lined the far wall, stacked high with sketchbooks. Sherlock removed his shoes before entering the room. 

“This will only take a few minutes. I need to finish this.” 

John frowned and shook his head, hating that it was the only thing he could do. He growled at Sherlock, wanting to lay into him for taking him out of the equation. If he was a part of this, he deserved a say in it.

“I’ll have Kazuo wait in here with you.”

John screamed at Sherlock then, his protest stifled completely. Sherlock gripped him by the shoulders as he tried to back away. 

“I’m aware that you want me to untie you,” Sherlock said. “It’s only a few minutes and you can wait it out. I don’t want you barging back in there.” Sherlock walked John over to the futon and pushed him down. 

John glared up at Sherlock; there was no point in protesting. Nothing he tried to say would be understood.  _Why don’t we just fucking leave? It’s simple, Sherlock. It’s so fucking simple._

Sherlock sighed and crouched before him. He placed his hand on the side of John’s face, and smoothed his fingers through John’s hair and studied him for awhile. 

“I haven’t been fair to you tonight.” 

John shook his head and pulled away from Sherlock’s touch, still so furious that he was going to be left behind. But as Sherlock continued to watch him and wait for him, John gradually stilled. He didn’t have a choice. Sherlock would wait him out until he relented. John lowered his head, wondering if he’d ever get an explanation out of Sherlock. He closed his eyes and felt the weight of Sherlock’s hand against the back of his head.

“Do you trust me?” Sherlock asked.

John looked up and Sherlock’s hand slid down and came to rest against the back of his neck. He knew that Sherlock wouldn’t leave until he had his answer. He hated Sherlock right now. He wanted to throttle him; he might have if he hadn’t been bound. But he trusted Sherlock. He wasn’t exactly sure why he should at this moment, but he did. He wouldn’t be here, he wouldn’t have gone through all of this with Sherlock if he didn’t. John nodded and Sherlock touched the side of John’s face one more time before he stood up to leave. 

John struggled against the binder.

It was Ares he didn’t trust.


	4. Chapter 4

 

John settled back on the futon and bowed his head in resignation. The position felt submissive and he hated that right now, but it eased the pain in his shoulders enough so that he could convince himself that it was bearable. He no longer existed as a whole, he had been reduced to a series of discomforts and frustrations and doubts. His jaw ached, fixed tightly in place and the edge of the buckle dug into the back of his head. He struggled to move his arms. Wrapped up tight in the leather binder, they itched and drove him mad.

He bit down on the ball in his mouth, trying to figure out a way to ease the pressure against his tongue. He wasn’t sure if he hated the gag yet. The moment Sherlock had secured it, what little remained of John’s armour had been stripped away. If it had only been Sherlock, and everything hadn’t gone so wrong, he might have given in to his helplessness and embraced it. Right now, the gag held a different meaning.

_Stop talking, John._

The sound of the door closing was the only hint that Kazuo had entered the room. John kept his head down. 

Kazuo crouched into John’s line of sight. He slid his hand onto John’s thigh. “John? Are you alright? You don’t look very well…” 

John shifted his gaze to the closed door and then back to regard the young man who knelt before him, touching him when he should have known better. He knew he was at a disadvantage  - that if Kazuo wanted, this could go wrong in a matter of seconds  \-  but Kazuo seemed more nervous in this situation than John did and John realised that, even bound, he still held at least a little power. Kazuo glanced back at the door.

John shook his head. Kazuo pulled his hand away.

“Do you want me to remove that?” Kazuo pointed at the gag and John nodded quickly. He didn’t care if Sherlock expected him to wear it. He was being offered an out and he intended to jump on it. John lowered his head, bracing himself. Sherlock had fastened the buckle so tight that Kazuo had to struggle to loosen it. “Sherlock is rather strict with you.”

John opened and closed his mouth slowly, working the cramp out of his jaw, and then tried to see how far he could push this lenience. He turned his back to Kazuo. “Get me out of this.” 

Kazuo went to work on the binder.

John stretched his arms wide when he was free. He bowed his shoulders trying to ease the ache that had settled in deep between his shoulder blades. 

“What’s going on out there?” John asked. “What are they doing?”

“They’re arguing. Well, when I left they were back to speaking.”

“About what?”

Kazuo looked to the door again. “About you.”

John shook his head. “They locked me in a room so they could argue about me? Neither of them found that… wrong? What were they saying?”

“It’s not my place to say. I know Sherlock will be back very soon. Just please don’t go out there.” Kazuo picked up the binder. “I don’t think I was supposed to untie you.”

“There’s no bloody way I’m letting you put that back on me,” John said. 

Kazuo sighed and sat back on his heels. He folded the binder into a neat pile and fidgeted with the buckles when he was finished. John softened as he watched Kazuo worry. He wondered how Kazuo was going to manage as a Dom when he had outranked Kazuo twice in less than five minutes.

“Alright, I won’t go out there.” John closed his eyes once more and settled back on the futon and they sat in an awkward silence.

“Has he tried kissing you yet?” Kazuo asked. He kept his voice low, as if somehow the others would hear him.

“What? I really don’t think that’s any of your-”

John faltered as the memory of his second time with Sherlock came flooding back. He had knelt on the cold tiled floor in the abandoned bath house, his arms bound behind his back, the cold seeping into his bones. _There’s something else that was suggested that I might try with you_ , Sherlock had told John quietly, before leaning forward to kiss him. Even at the time, John had wondered about those words, and he had been questioning them ever since.

John snapped back into the present and narrowed his eyes at Kazuo. “What did you mean by that?” 

“No, it was nothing. It was just a question.” Kazuo frowned and stood. “I’m sorry, let me go and get your clothes for you. Please just wait here.”

“Kazuo, why did you ask me that? Did you say something to him?”

Kazuo slipped out of the room and John went to storm the studio. He reached the door and grabbed the doorknob before he slowed and finally stopped. If he went out there right now, he didn’t know what he would do. He didn’t have the words to express the heat beneath his skin and the tightness in throat and that it just hurt to think about all of the things that had happened. John cracked the door open and peered out into the space. 

Kazuo had spoken the truth. Ares stood calmly in the centre as Sherlock paced a manic path around him, scowling as he spoke. John closed the door. He frowned at the barrier, rubbing the back of his neck and projecting his anger onto the other side.  _Fucking hell…_

John turned on his heel and wandered the length of the room until he stopped seeing red and every thought in his head didn’t start with the words ‘For fuck’s sake!’ He would wait it out for now. Get his answers when Sherlock returned. This was not at all how he expected the night would play out. 

Manji’s sketchbooks were organised by year. John settled down before the stacks and stared at the piles of books. There were twelve sketchbooks in 2011 alone. The books started in 2000 and ran to the present and John tried to figure out if Manji was older than he looked or if he had started chronicling his kinky obsessions when he was around twelve. White text and numbers, locations and dates, marked each of the spines. 

John picked up the first book: Nippon 031000 - 042500. He flipped through a study of Japan Railway trains and car interiors. It wasn’t until the middle of 2002 that Manji shifted away from photo-realistic vending machines and onto the study of the human form. Manji took off from there. John pulled the top book from the 2011 stack, and ran his fingers across the spine. Nippon 010111 - 032311.

He thumbed back through the pages, glossing over portraits of countless men and women, Asian and European and African, bound and helpless or caught in mundane moments. Faces stared up from the page, lost in thought, lost in ecstasy. The images ranged from rough sketches that hinted at movement, to portraits flooded with life and detail. He would be in one of these books soon. Nippon 020812. John wondered if he would be reduced to vague lines and the semblance of motion. 

He placed the book back and scanned the rows. Most of the labels read Nippon, but other words dotted through the stacks. In 2012, one book read Nippon/Paris. John moved two stacks to the left and stopped. Wedged almost at the bottom of the pile was Nippon/UK 060110 - 090110. _Two years ago._ He suddenly felt like he was a child again, back when he used to creep into the garage and read the well-used copies of _Razzle_ his father had hidden behind the tool drawer. He’d always had butterflies in the pit of his stomach, certain that Harry would walk in on him. But no one ever did.

He still wasn’t ready for it. 

Sherlock sat with his back to Manji, perched on a tall stool in the centre of the page. He wore nothing but the black leather boots that laced up to his knees and the leather binder that pulled his arms back so tightly that his shoulder blades touched. The images on the pages before had been sketchy at best, but this one was rendered in perfect detail. It seemed as if someone had spoken Sherlock’s name at that moment and he had just turned his head, looking over his shoulder in response. Manji’s expert hand had caught the sharp edge of Sherlock’s cheekbone and the long line of his neck. Sherlock stared out of the corner of his eye, his chin raised slightly, his lips sealed with gaffer tape. His gaze fixed on someone outside the frame.

John exhaled and turned the page.

Sherlock faced forward on the stool now and stared out at Manji, still naked and bound, his eyes narrowed and defiant. Ares Adler stood at Sherlock’s back, a riding crop gripped in his strong hands. Ares held it firmly in place, wedged between Sherlock’s teeth. 

John traced his finger across Sherlock’s chest, careful not to disturb the graphite on the page and take any of it with him. He tried to understand what this meant, or what this meant to him. He’d never imagined Sherlock like this before. Surprisingly he never had. It all just seemed out of place. 

Things didn’t have to be defined, roles didn’t have to be set, but he still couldn’t get his head around the fact that Sherlock would ever want to submit to anyone. But maybe Ares Adler wasn’t just anyone. John had watched the two of them battle it out all night, and still Sherlock allowed Ares an intimacy of touch that John had never dared. And maybe that was why his heart ached and why he began to feel like a fool.

“John.”

John stood quickly and slammed the book shut. He wanted to set the book back on the shelf and pretend that he hadn’t seen anything at all. But he was standing so still, staring down at the black book in his hands, and he couldn’t seem to move. Sherlock set down the clothes in his arms and reached out for the book. John turned back to the page and passed on what he had seen.

Sherlock stared at his own image, turning the pages and taking it all in through pale, emotionless eyes. John couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He wrapped his arms around himself and stayed quiet as Sherlock’s focus remained locked on the page. 

“You convinced Kazuo to free you, I see,” Sherlock said, his voice low and cold.

“I forced him,” John said quietly.

“Bound and gagged, you forced him?” Sherlock glanced up at him. “That’s quite some feat.”

John frowned. “Those pictures- I mean, I didn’t know, that you and Ares were-”

“We aren’t,” Sherlock said, though he couldn’t seem to look away from the page. “But this, it never happened.” He closed the book and put it back in its rightful place. “Manji has an active imagination, that’s all.”

Sherlock sat down on the edge of the futon, and stretched his legs out before him. 

“You’re staring at me like you have doubts.” Sherlock passed John the sketchbook that he had brought in with John’s clothes. “Here are the pictures Manji drew tonight.” 

John sat beside Sherlock and stared down at himself. Manji had brought him to life as black pencil lines on white paper and strange details, like the slight upturn of his nose, and the furrow lines across his forehead, and how his eyes always seemed a bit tired. He knelt in the centre of the page, his torso bound in leather straps, his wrists in thick cuffs, locked to a belt around his waist. He stared forward with defiance in his eyes and a snarl on his lips. The scar on his chest had been rendered in perfect detail. John squinted at this version of himself. Manji had depicted him in a kinder light. He admired his newly chiselled abs and the fact that he looked about ten years younger on the page. 

None of this had happened. 

John turned the page and stared at the truth now. He had lived this moment, his arms locked in the binder, the gag in his mouth, Sherlock at his back, pulling him into an embrace. His eyes looked so angry, and John wasn’t surprised that everyone had called him stubborn and strong-willed. If a stranger had paused on this page, they might wonder if he had been dragged into the situation against his will. 

“Do you believe me?” Sherlock asked. 

John wanted to believe him. He wanted to so fucking badly, but not everything Manji drew was a lie. 

They sat in silence. John looked through the pages slowly, taking in visions of himself enduring things he didn’t fully understand or even have names for. Straps that would cover his face and body, metal bars that would stretch and lock his limbs open and wide. Manji had covered almost every part of John’s body, except for his eyes. His eyes always stared straight ahead, always challenging, even when his body was lost in leather. 

“You never did answer Ares’ question.” Sherlock closed the book when John stopped turning the pages. 

“He asked a lot of questions,” John said.

“What you needed, how you wanted to be bound.” 

“Those are two very different questions, Sherlock.”

“I do want to know what you want.”

John frowned, shaking his head. “Are you sure now? I mean it’s pretty obvious what  _you_ want. It’s just like that picture you said never happened. Did he do that to you? Is that why you want me like that? Is that all this is?” John rubbed his face with his hands and began to fear that what they were doing was just some aftershock of Sherlock’s time with Ares. “I don’t even know why you fucking bothered to bring me here.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and for the first time since this night had begun, he seemed tired. “It’s remarkable how wrong you can be sometimes.”

“Is it? Then explain it to me,” John said. “Fucking use your words, Sherlock. Obviously, I’m incapable of figuring it out on my own, and you’re not giving me any bloody clues here!” He reached for his clothes and Sherlock grabbed his arm.

Sherlock picked up the gag. “I’ll show you. But you’ll have to take this first.”

John wrenched his arm from Sherlock’s hold. “Not again, I’m not going to.” He pulled on his boxers and untangled his vest from the pile.

“Please,” Sherlock said.

John stopped. Not once in their time together had Sherlock ever said please to him. Not once. John couldn’t count the times he had said please to Sherlock. _Please slow down. Please don’t do this. Please don’t stop._ He wondered if Sherlock realised this, or if the significance of the word even registered to him. John looked at Sherlock, wondering why after all this time, the word came now. He sat down beside Sherlock and put his head in his hands.

“Please, John.”

John closed his eyes. He had tumbled into all of this headfirst, driven by pure need and something so visceral, but he wasn’t sure if that would be enough anymore. He didn’t want to give in, not again. But he couldn’t discount the word, and he needed to know.

John allowed Sherlock to silence him once more. He shut his eyes as Sherlock fastened the buckle, thankful that he was gentler this time. He felt awkward, sitting next to Sherlock like this. He kept his hands at his sides, not exactly sure if he should move them behind his back. He found he could no longer look Sherlock in the eye.

“Ares believes that I am going to hurt you,” Sherlock said. “He’s quite certain that I’m going to break you. He thinks we should end this.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s wrists before John could reach for the gag. John struggled to pull back and Sherlock matched his resistance, pushing him down. John thrashed beneath Sherlock, angry and frustrated and wanting to speak now, as Sherlock pinned his wrists above his head and straddled his hips. 

“He thinks I do this out of curiosity. That this is all an experiment just to see how you tick, and to see how much you can endure. But I’m not oblivious to the fact that he’d rather not have you in the picture.” 

John collapsed back onto the futon and stopped struggling. He was getting all of his answers, but now he wasn’t sure he wanted them anymore. Sherlock stared down at him, and the quietness in Sherlock’s voice drained the fight from John’s body. 

“Ares isn’t the person I should attempt to explain this to. You are.” Sherlock released John’s wrists and sat back. “You can take that off if you want, or you can just listen to me.” 

John kept his hands above his head. 

“Whatever you’re thinking right now. I can tell you it’s not true. Ares never did those things to me. I’m certain he wants to, but he hasn’t. I can’t  _make_ you believe that, John. I’m not going to try.” 

John looked down and Sherlock continued.

“I believe this will be the second time I’ve said that I’ve been careless with you. I know that if I have to say it again, I won’t expect for you to…” Sherlock stopped and closed his eyes for a moment. “I thought perhaps you understood why I choose to do this. But now I realise that you really have no idea, do you?”

John shook his head.

“Then let me show you.” 

John closed his hands into fists and met Sherlock’s stare.

“I bind your upper arms to bring you forward, so you can’t hide from me. So I can touch you and feel how fast your heart beats. I can watch how quickly you breathe, and see the rise and fall of your chest, and how it hitches when you gasp.” 

Sherlock pressed his hand against John’s chest and John felt as if his heart moved to meet the touch. It took everything that he had to keep still as Sherlock’s fingers moved down and settled onto his stomach. John dug his nails into his palms, his abs tightening as he tensed and held his breath. He tried desperately not to show that he was so sensitive there, ticklish even, and that if Sherlock moved his fingers suddenly, he would thrash and try to get away.

Sherlock placed his palm against John’s cheek, and smoothed his thumb across the gag. “I know you think I want to keep you quiet, but you’re wrong. I do this for the sounds that you make.”

Sherlock turned his attention back to John’s chest, tugging gently at John’s nipple until the nub was erect and flushed. John writhed beneath Sherlock, his breath faster now, his cock hardening. He moaned, despite his efforts to stay quiet. 

“Just like that,” Sherlock said, and the sly smile on his lips made John’s heart race. “There’s a particular sound that comes out of you when you are frustrated and all wound up and desperate. It’s like a moan, but it starts from here.” Sherlock brushed his fingers across John’s throat. 

Sherlock began his assault in earnest. He closed his teeth onto John’s nipple, teasing and biting until he pulled a whine from John’s throat. John stretched his arms above his head, pressing his hands against the wall until he just couldn’t anymore and then he buried his fingers in Sherlock’s dark hair. 

Sherlock stopped and grabbed John’s hands. John protested, shaking his head as Sherlock untangled his fingers and pinned his wrists once more. 

Sherlock took his time observing John struggle beneath him. “This is exactly why I have to tie you up, John. You have no self-control. Which is a part of you that I’m particularly fond of. You try very hard for about ten minutes and then you’ve had enough and the only thing keeping you in front of me is the fact that I’ve bound you there. I won’t bind your arms back like that anymore. I know you don’t want it. I’m certain I can find other ways to hold you still.”

John glared up at him, growling in frustration and Sherlock laughed.

“You see, that sound right there is perfect,” Sherlock said. “Almost at your wits’ end. Even without words you communicate eloquently. I know almost all of your sounds. There are about five that you make when you want more, and a particularly desperate whimper that you do when I’m not giving you enough. There’s a sharp sound that starts in the back of your throat when you’re just fed up with me. Then your eyes come into play as well and it becomes quite exquisite. But I think my favourite sound is the soft one, when you’re on the very edge of being wrecked and you start to become pliant. When you begin to truly submit and give yourself to me. That one is like no other sound I’ve heard before. And when you make it just for me, I-” Sherlock stopped. “There are notes in you that I haven’t discovered yet. And I plan to pull them all from you, one at a time, until I make your body sing.”

John strained forward, overwhelmed and dizzy from the words, protesting with the effort to reach Sherlock. And when their foreheads finally touched, John closed his eyes, and trembled, struggling to keep the contact. 

When they began on this strange path together, John had assumed that Sherlock was merely curious about this dynamic and that he did this out of kindness, to fill the need that John desperately had. He had never dared to imagine that it could be about him, about the sounds that  _he_ made, or his eyes, or that Sherlock could consider any part of him exquisite or perfect. Never.

“Do you understand now?” Sherlock whispered against him. “Will you forgive me?”

John nodded. He wished there wasn’t the barrier of leather between them, because at that moment he would have done anything to have Sherlock’s mouth against his own. Though he still wasn’t bold enough to ask for it. John opened his eyes as Sherlock gave him his voice back.

  


* * *

 

John stood quietly as Sherlock helped him back into his clothes. He couldn’t remember the last time that someone had dressed him. He moved as Sherlock directed, raising his arms when told, shifting back as Sherlock threaded his belt through the loops. Sherlock worked in silence, breaking it only to give direction and when the final button of John’s jacket had been hooked, Sherlock stepped back and assessed his work.

“You still never answered the question,” Sherlock said. 

“How I want to be bound?” John asked.

“No, what it is that you need.” 

_What do I need?_ That had been the question on everyone’s lips tonight, the question that John didn’t have an answer to. He felt need; buried deep in his chest he felt it. But he feared that if he asked for more, he might lose everything.

“Certainly there’s-”

“I don’t want to just have to wait for you,” John blurted the words out all at once. He stopped, waiting for a reaction. “It’s been almost three weeks since the last time we… I didn’t know if you were ever going to ask…”

Sherlock frowned.

“I don’t know,” John continued. “Maybe I could use a system like yours, or something.”

“It’s an idea,” Sherlock said.

John ran Sherlock’s system through his head, remembering the rules, feeling self-conscious, altering the pieces and turning the tables. When he had figured it out and found his voice again he began.

“One chance,” John said and his heart steadied as the words came. “I’ll tell you once, that I’m giving myself to you. And, I guess that will be your chance to say no. But if you say yes, then you’ll know that sometime that day or night, I’ll expect you to begin.”

“And if I refuse?” 

“Then- I suppose, I’ll be disappointed.” 

“And if I agree?” Sherlock said quietly, holding John’s stare.

“Then you take it until you determine it’s over. You said that part hasn’t changed. I’m prepared for that.” 

“Is that what you need?” Sherlock asked. 

John stared down at his hands as Sherlock reached out to straighten the line of his collar.

“It’s a start.”

  


* * *

 

                                                      

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the best betas in the world: [duh_i_read](http://archiveofourown.org/users/duh_i_write/pseuds/duh_i_read) who pointed out the gaping holes [lady_t_220](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_T_220) who made me do it over, and [pennypaperbrain](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pennypaperbrain) who made it all shiny...
> 
> Inspired by the following kink meme:  
> [Male Irene Adler](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/17487.html?thread=108571983#t108571983)
> 
> Banner for Bespoke by [duh_i_read](http://archiveofourown.org/users/duh_i_write/pseuds/duh_i_read)
> 
> Awesome art for Bespoke by [rotaryphones](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rotaryphones/pseuds/rotaryphones) [Manji's sketch](http://rotaryphones.livejournal.com/22013.html#cutid1)
> 
> More cool art for Bespoke [Navydream's](http://navydream.tumblr.com/) [Ares Adler & Sherlock](http://mugenmine.tumblr.com/post/45454470259/navydream-ups-i-made-a-mistake-if-you-noticed)
> 
> Wonderful art inspired by Bespoke: [Defiant](http://archiveofourown.org/works/755040) by [Alasse M](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Alasse_m/pseuds/Alasse_m)  
>  
> 
> Please leave a comment if the mood takes you!


End file.
